


What You Are and What It Means

by LordJixis



Series: Your Teeth: For Warm Things [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, idk what else you want from me, the titles of these have been all over the place i am sorry, the world ended and they're gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 04:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17676356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordJixis/pseuds/LordJixis
Summary: Hard conversations were never his strong point.





	What You Are and What It Means

Grantaire has all kinds of ticks. He picks at his fingernails, he jiggles his legs, he laughs when he should cry. But the thing about him Enjolras hates most is that any information that's irrelevant gets dumped from his brain seconds after hearing it.

“Why does it matter who the terrorist cell was?” He's not quite snarling, but Enjolras thinks that's mostly because he's still in a hospital bed. “Everyone's fucking dead either way.”

“Because!” Enjolras spits, and he wishes it was years ago, when that would've been enough. He misses when his word was law in Grantaire's mind. He misses when he'd look at him like a deity. Mostly, he misses knowing what the fuck was going on. “Because... fuck. Because they dropped those chemicals _two days_ after our rally. Because we had enemies and I antagonized them and this could be all my fault.”

Grantaire blinks. The machine beeps. “Did you just ignore the part where nothing was even _that bad_ until the government tried to counteract with their own chemicals and made everyone into fucking zombies instead?”

“Millions of people going comatose from an unknown compound being dropped from the fucking sky isn't _that bad_ to you? At what point does it get _that bad_?”

“When people started eating other people. That's when it got that bad.”

Something must be showing on his face, because Grantaire's sags. “You weren't... exaggerating? About the zombies?” He can't help the way his voice comes out, not-quite desperate and not-quite convinced.

“They aren't... they aren't like movie zombies. They aren't particularly strong or fast or slow. They're just rotting, angry people.” He shrugs. “Stupid, too. Wouldn't be a problem if there weren't so fucking many.”

“How many?”

“About a percent of the population was immune to whatever effects the first chemical had. There were two days before the government dropped their fucked up 'antidote'. During those two days, Combeferre made a cure that actually worked. We can only assume some other people somewhere did the same, but the timing was too tight to hold out much hope on anything widespread.” He took a deep breath. Enjolras is glad he doesn't have to prompt him to continue anymore. He doesn't know if he could. “Of the Amis, Courfeyrac was the only one with natural immunity, but Combeferre was in his air-filtered lab. Thank god.” They share a grimace. “All of them were alive when I last saw them.”

“And when did you last see them?”

He shifts. Glances out the window. It's not yet dawn, but the deep indigo of night has lightened just a bit. “A while back. Maybe four weeks.”

“And... where are they?” He asks, when it's clear Grantaire needs _even more_ prompting.

“They went south. We met some people, they said there was a camp of survivors down there.”

Enjolras knows what it means that Grantaire didn't go with them. He's not stupid, and he's _not_ going to ask – but fuck does he want to ask.

The moment passes. Grantaire looks down, and he's just the defeated alcoholic again, just the slouching critic in the corner, just the guy who wormed his way into Enjolras' heart like a particularly self-destructive parasite. “I suppose we'll follow them.” He says it to the floor, which remains perpetually indifferent. “When you've gained some strength back, of course.”

Enjolras draws back, prepares a war with words (hes not a cripple, he's not weak) but Grantaire sends him a glare and speaks crisply, “If you can walk across this room and back we can argue.”

Enjolras looks at the expanse of tiled floor. It is not, logically, that far. He should have no trouble.

Grantaire nudges the I.V. out of his reach and stares at him challengingly.

And, again, he's wishing this was the old Enjolras and Grantaire. He's wishing that he'd crawl across the floor if that's what it takes, he's wishing that Grantaire would reach a hand out and help him. He's wishing it would be enough.

Instead they stare at each other in the cold light of the I.V.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i am writing porn for the first time gimme the secrets
> 
> how many times can you use the words 'writhed', 'groaned', 'moaned', 'wanton', 'wonton', (i like chinese food okay)
> 
> jk i just don't think i like sex as much as the average person so i try to make it more about the intimacy but then its like... they aren't even banging they're just talking about how much they love each other


End file.
